Punk Story Page 12

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I was asking about your home town,’ I said.

  ‘That isn’t good for a reporter, being fucking hard of hearing,’ Snot commented.

  ‘If you want to know, I happen to be an East Ender, and my native borough is Stepney,’ he told us, turning solemn.

  ‘What happened to your cockney accent, me old sparrow?’

  The cub reporter shrugged off this punk sarcasm. ‘That’s where I was born and raised.’

  Paulie’s story about his origins didn’t sound credible, not even to generous Roy. All the same, a few years later, a nostalgic article about Stepney did appear in the London Evening Standard, with Paulie Wellington as a by-line. Somehow Paulie was able to bluff a features editor on the subject. Then again, he wasn’t the only lad to put on a ‘mockney accent’. He wasn’t the only character to entirely invent and reinvent himself. It was just a standard rock ‘n’ roll swindle of the time. It was the stuff that pop music and culture was made on, especially in Nulton.

  ‘Do you fancy yourself as John Lennon?’ Stan said.

  ‘Why do you say that? Not anymore I don’t, no.’

  ‘I mean those little round granny glasses of yours.’

  ‘Well, all right, I’m going to change them soon.’

  ‘You having a ‘bed-in’, are you?’

  ‘Are you some kind of hippie then, Paulie?’ I asked, out of curiosity.

  The cub reporter blew air and chuckled scornfully.

  Roy had returned with an armful of beer. ‘Nawh, he got his hair cut last week, marra. It came all the way down ‘is back, didn’t it Paulie man? Ai, amazing long blonde hair he had. Woulda been beautiful even on a girl, comrades.’

  ‘Come on Roy, mate. It wasn’t down my back!’

  ‘Ai, he’s been dead keen on punk music lately. Since I introduced it to him, mind. Paulie went out and sold all his old jazz records on the spot.’

  ‘I’m good mates with Joe Strummer and the boys.’

  ‘Oh, you are? You’re mates with the Clash?’ Stan tried not to sound envious.

  ‘Along with the rest of the audience,’ I commented.

  The news reporter ignored my remark. ‘Yeah, that’s right Stan, they’re real Londoners as well. Great lads, The Clash. Really have a good peaceful vibe going on with their sound.’

  ‘We’re talking about the same Clash,’ Stan checked.

  ‘Is there another band, mate, capable of Tommy Gun and White Riot?’

  ‘How long have you known Strummer then?’

  ‘Bloody ages, mate. I was down Kilburn, after one of their gigs... and Joe just invited me back to his squat... ‘

  ‘What did you fucking do there?’

  ‘What did we do, Stan mate? We talked music... chatted about politics and radical stuff... smoked a bit of dope together,’ the reporter explained, with a gurgle of pleasure.

  ‘Right, so what was their squat like?’

  ‘Really cool. A fantastic place off Camden, mate,’ Paulie told him. He puckered his lips. ‘Really creative. A really positive vibe.’

  13. Paulie as a Punk-Reggae Star

  ‘Did you hear? I’m getting my own group,’ Paulie said.

  This was a bombshell on the Nulton music scene. It stunned the population - or at least us.

  ‘You can’t be a punk,’ Snot told him.

  A wounded, baffled look. ‘Why can’t I be a punk, mate?’

  ‘So what kind of music do you play?’

  ‘I’ve got my own original ideas. Anyway I want my group to be blacker.’

  ‘Away Paulie, don’t be so daft man,’ Roy objected.

  ‘You’re maybe the roadie for Marley,’ Stan mocked.

  Paulie brushed it off. He considered himself an expert in music. He’d been the owner a substantial record collection - mainly jazz and classic rock - which he’d sold for a tenner (a common blunder).

  ‘What’s this band of yours called?’ I asked.

  ‘Got to decide on a name.’

  ‘So what’s your sound gonna be like?’ Stan persisted.

  ‘Reggae, rock, soul, punk...’

  ‘Ah, come on Paulie. Away, man! He doesn’t even have this group a’ his put together mind.’

  The cub reporter looked put out. ‘Come on Roy, mate, what do you mean by that?’

  Smith avoided drowning in bitter. ‘There’s only him in this group so far, comrades!’ he spluttered.

  ‘No name. No other members. I’m starting to like the sound of this,’ Snot admitted.

  ‘Come on, Paulie, don’t start messing around with music, when you doon’t have a clue aboot it, comrade. Ai, just stick to talkin’ about your newspaper... and what you’re doin’ at work, man. Things you noo aboot.’

  The band leader was looking pink and stung. ‘All right, Roy. I’m putting out feelers for a guitarist, a bass player and female backing singers,’ he explained.

  We struggled to imagine what his group could be like.

  ‘Away Paulie, that’s impossible, you daft bas’tad!’ Roy objected finally, with a violent shake.

  Snot looked on with big sardonic eyes. ‘Sounds like it’s only you so far, Paulie.’

  ‘Can you help find me some local musicians Stan, mate?’

  ‘You forgot your drummer. You want a drummer in this group... right?’ the guitarist considered.

  Wellington’s mental cogs span and failed to cohere. ‘Yeah, we want some good rhythms, mate. Sure. But it doesn’t have to be exactly a drummer.’

  ‘How does that work?’ Snot wondered, genuinely baffled.

  Smith fumed. ‘Away man, what you on about... you need a drummer in this group!’ he said, trembling and shaking his locks.

  ‘Keep calm, will you Roy mate. Wait until I explain. You don’t need to have a drummer in your group. The way I see it, we’re gonna try something different than rock music. I’m going to find an all-round percussionist.’

  ‘Awh now, a fucking percussionist mind!’

  ‘Come on, Roy, what’s your big problem. You won’t even give it a bloody chance,’ Paulie objected.

  ‘Be a bit clearer on this, Paulie. What type of sound you trying to achieve? I mean, is this a punk group or what?’

  ‘We’re definitely punk, Stan mate. But we’re trying to bring in the Jamaican sound as well.’

  ‘Reggae?’

  ‘Jammin!’ Paulie declared, picking up on the enthusiasm.

  ‘Away Paulie, this is complete shite!’ Smith complained. The Trotskyite agitator nearly choked on his ale, and threw a puddle of it away in protest.

  Snot’s mug had a knowing look. Wellington’s plan seemed like a fantasy, yet the challenge appealed. His fusion concept was in tune with the shifting musical culture. The Clash were experimenting with Jamaican sounds, from dub to ‘lovers’ rock’. Paulie claimed to know Joe and the lads. He’d been hanging around with them at their squat. Punk had come across until then as very white and male: The Clash began to challenge and subvert that narrow image. In fact Stan had a stack of Trojan Records, and Jamaican sounds which had featured regularly on John Peel’s show.

  ‘If you want the Jamaican sound, it’s all in the rhythm,’ Stan advised.

  The junior reporter was bewitched. ‘I want to get a bit of toasting in my vocal style,’ he cooed.

  ‘You’re the fuckin’ vor-calist marra?’

  ‘Sure mate, I’m going to be skanking on stage. Maybe we’ll get some Ska into the mix as well,’ he promised.

  ‘Get it focussed. You’re going to need a drummer and a bass player who can play in those styles,’ Snot argued.

  ‘Yeah, right Stan. Now you’re talking, mate!’

  ‘What are you talkin’ aboot, Paulie man? When you don’t even have a group together yet?’
Smith simmered.

  ‘Come on, Roy mate, give us a chance will you?’

  ‘You can’t even play an instrument mind!’

  ‘That’s the whole point of punk,’ I remarked. ‘You don’t have to know one end of a guitar from...’

  ‘I’ve got charisma. That’s what you need in a bloody front man. You need somebody with stage presence,’ Wellington told us.

  ‘Yeah, you can get any stupid tosser up there,’ Snot agreed.

  ‘Right mate, right... but... That’s what I’ve got, Roy mate,’ the cub reporter insisted. He offered an amiable and tolerant chuckle. ‘I’ve got musical charisma and stage presence, in bags, mate. Go ask Joe, Mick and the boys.’

  ***

  Our town was never going to rival the big punk scenes developing in the cities, like Birmingham or Manchester - where Shelley and Devoto were more than scratching about - but we weren’t aimed at the AOR charts either.

  ‘Where you looking for your band members?’

  ‘I’ve put an ad in Melody Maker. I put something in the musicians wanted pages,’ Paulie explained.

  We looked at each other in amazement.

  ‘Isn’t that a bit ambitious, Paulie?’

  ‘Do they have a non-musicians section?’

  ‘Away Paulie! What you talking about man? Yer must be jerkin, yer daft bas’tad!’ Roy complained. He was choking with rage again. ‘What’re yer doin advertising in the Melody Meeker mind?’

  ‘Come on, Roy mate, why shouldn’t I?’

  ‘Charismatic front man in search of a band,’ I offered.

  ‘You’re in danger of getting too big for your desert boots,’ Snot advised.

  ‘C’mon Paulie, it’s too soon to advertise in Melody Meeker. Be sensible, marra, you’ve never played in a band before now. You can’t even sing mind.’

  Wellington was bemused and hurt. ‘’Cors I can bloody sing, mate. Why would I bother otherwise? What’s wrong with putting an ad in a national music paper? That’s the only way to find good musicians,’ he argued. ‘What would you suggest, Roy?’ He made a frustrated scoffing sound.

  ‘Away, you daft bugger!’ Smith was determined to shock him back to reality. ‘I doon’t want to hear any more about this band nonsense mind.’

  ‘That’s how the best new bands get together.’ Injured vanity was written all over Paulie’s face.

  ‘Maybe you’ll have Rick Wakeman,’ Snot said.

  This provoked a bit of a sarcastic teenage chortle among us, which even cheered up the Trotskyite.

  ‘Listen comrades, he definitely can’t sing, mind! Not from what I’ve heard, any roads.’

  ‘Leave off, Roy mate! When did you ever hear me sing?’

  ‘Away man, where do you think? I’ve heard you singing in the bath, comrade.’

  ‘That sounds really dodgy.’

  ‘Fuck off, we share the same flat!’

  ‘Come on, Roy, don’t be a reactionary, cos I’ve got a bloody good voice.’

  ‘You don’t have to be a trained Milan opera singer to be punk.’ Snot argued, turned magnanimous.

  ‘Better if you’re tone deaf,’ I said - picking up the punk ethic.

  ‘If you want to start this band up, master Paulie, take my fucking advice. Don’t advertise in the national music press. Find your musicians locally around Nulton. More chance of success that way.’

  ‘Ai, spot on marra, because late capitalism just exploits the talent of these young working class kids mind. Then the bosses sell everything back to us for profit, comrades. The party supports punk cos it resists this abs’lutely vile exploit-ative system and builds a proper socialist alternative, mind.’

  ‘That’s what I’m bloody trying to do,’ Wellington told him.

  Snot sank back to his typical phlegmatic hunch.

  Could socialism or punk survive Paulie? I didn’t rate either of their chances.

  ‘The whole point’s that Paulie gets up and makes a prick of himself on stage,’ I clarified. ‘Like everybody else.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s the spirit. And I might be able to find him a drummer,’ Snot offered.

  The reporter’s visage brightened. ‘That would be bloody excellent, mate.’

  ‘My mate Dennis knows all the Jamaican styles of drumming. Inside out, no problem to him. He should, cos he’s Jamaican. Punk’s a piece of piss to him too, if that’s what you want. Standard four four, if necessary. I’ll have a word with him.

  ‘Cheers, mate!’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll explain you’re looking for a reggae thing. If we come into the pub often enough, we’ll bump into him.’

  ‘Crucial,’ Paulie came back, ‘but are you sure this Dennis is really black?’

  ‘Away Paulie! Are you jorkin’? What rubbish you’re talking now man!’ The Smith protested.

  ‘You can ask Dennis if he’s really black if you like,’ Snot suggested.

  The little guitarist and I had another snigger at Wellington’s expense.

  ‘I want to get talented female musicians,’ Paulie added. ‘I don’t want to be bloody sexist with my group.’

  Already I had an uncomfortable feeling that Wellington should stay away from our ‘talented’ Gina Watson.

  ‘Paulie, don’t be such a buffoon man!’ Smith exploded, losing patience.

  ‘All right, Roy mate, don’t get bloody wound up. At the present time we’re only discussing the line-up. There’s nothing definite yet. You heard, Stan knows a drummer and he may know some female singers as well.’

  Indignant Smith took a step back, beside himself and unable to articulate anything coherent for several seconds.

  ‘We got Anna-kissed in our band, cos she’s my mate,’ Snot explained. Well, she used to be!’

  ‘Sure, crucial. I heard you playing at Nulton Arts. Incredible performance that night. Really strong emotions,’ Paulie remembered.

  ‘Yeah, we read about it,’ I commented.

  ‘We got another gig... at the Hatter. Come if you want,’ Snot suggested. ‘So long as you promise not to fucking write anything about it.’

  ‘Why not, mate? That’s my bloody day job, isn’t it...? I’m the paper’s new reporter... the youngest one on the staff, who has an interest in punk... and it’s my task to cover the local music scene.’

  ‘Anyway, come and destroy our reputation.’

  This was a confusing suggestion. ‘Right, I’ll come to your gig.’

  Thickening his skin against unflattering quips, Paulie further loosened his tie and shirt collar and relaxed.

  All the same, I noticed bitten fingernails and that spreading rash. No doubt that job at the Chronicle wasn’t as enviable as I thought. Something was eating him up. Something was eating us all. Why couldn’t this society let us be?

  ‘D’you hear about this Battle of the Bands competition? One of the judges is an A and R man from EMI Records in London. They’re offering a record contract and a major tour.’

  ‘Phew, Bottle mate, I already got the all the facts on that story... I’m ahead on it. I’m going to write my big piece next week,’ he told me.

  Set to assemble his own band, Paulie’s interest in the competition was more than journalistic.

  ‘Mortal isn’t signing for any fucking dinosaur record company,’ Snot reminded us.

  ‘After the revolution, comrades, working class musicians’ll be releasing their own records,’ Smith added. Humanitarian and calm again, he was finally back with a twinkle.

  ‘There are already a lot of independent labels,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Away Paulie, cos after the revolution we’ll put those record company execs. up against the wall and mow em down with fucking machine guns. That’s if they don’t redistribute profits,’ he said (with a shiver of anticipation).


  Wellington stared at his housemate in bemusement. ‘All right, Roy mate, calm down, will you?’ he laughed, a bit shocked.

  ‘I’m happy to report that Mortal don’t stand a chance,’ Stan insisted. ‘We’re crap and repellent... and we stay that way. We’re not going to fucking win, it’s only a laugh. If we take part we can finish second at best. That way we might get some new gear.’

  ‘Right,’ Paulie said. ‘So that leaves the contest open to me.’ It was a Eureka moment.

  ‘After you’ve found some girl backing singers?’

  ‘Crucial, Stan mate.’

  ‘That shouldn’t take him very long, mind. Not on past form.’

  ‘Phoo, what’s that supposed to mean, Roy?’

  ‘So what type of girly reggae band you putting together? Pans People or something like that?’ Snot sneered.

  Word got around the local circuit that Paulie - reporter on the paper - was looking for girl singers and musicians. As he’d written that cack-handed gig review for the local rag, he’d got a bit of cred from lads who couldn’t read straight.

  Apparently a new punk group was born every minute.

  14. The ‘Curry Run’

  Stan introduced the new band leader to Dennis McDonald. At first mention the Jamaican-styles drummer and percussionist was interested. His previous and long-time group, The Kingston Klingons, had to break up when their vocalist became a pastry chef (Sam the cook).

  Wellington stared, naively open-mouthed, during the negotiation. If he could recruit a musician of this quality, the record contract with EMI was more or less his. So his gig reviews for the Chronicle were merely a hobby, or run-up to global pop stardom. He was impressed by Dennis’ hairstyle, mesmerised by his Caribbean patter (Dennis’ parents had arrived in 1955: his Mum was a florist and his dad a driver).

  The fact that Wellington was a complete novice was lost in the mix. It didn’t seem to matter much during that punk period. After a break from playing live, Dennis was eager for a new project. He couldn’t wait to reassemble that complicated drum kit of his; a sort of percussive ‘Spaghetti Junction’. Recovering his cheery matiness, Paulie was soon full of ideas about this embryonic punk reggae fusion band. The reporter definitely made all the right noises and musical references. He probably fitted the bill as a front man, though it would have killed us to admit it. A shame he’d cut his hair off, because he might have teased it into dreads. Dennis didn’t notice the disgusted faces we were pulling in the background, as negotiations and plans proceeded.